


On Your Knees

by tryslora



Series: Blow Job Friday [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Job Friday, Blow Jobs, Fight Sex, Fights, M/M, Muggles, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins with a fight, as it so often does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Knees

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fourth fic for [Blow Job Friday](http://torino10154.livejournal.com/509138.html). Teas_me requested something with Marcus, and while it might be hard to tell just by reading the fic, this IS a Marcus story. As always, I do not own the world or characters of Harry Potter, I just like to play with them.

It begins with a fight, as it so often does.

You’re in the pub because where else can you go when the day is done? You’ve scrubbed the blood from your hands, wiped the muck off your trousers and changed into something clean and vaguely Muggle. You think you fit in, or at least, they don’t give you the looks they used to give when you started coming here a month ago.

A Muggle pub.

There’s a part of you that feels unclean about it, feels as if you’re betraying your own kind just by being here.

But you _are_ unclean, and you know it. Your father has told this to you a hundred times, or maybe a thousand, when he’s ranting until spittle flies about how the Flint line is going to end.

You don’t believe him, not really. You know it’s just how things are, and that no one else really cares except for him.

The thing is, he’s your father.

You want him to love you, even though he never has.

So you take the things you know about yourself, the things you already accepted long ago, and you hide them from prying eyes. You step outside the safe world of magic and into a strange world that involves motorized vehicles and talking machines. You learn about footie (you haven’t picked a club, yet, but you get the feeling there’s only one choice based on the pub you frequent). You know to order a pint instead of a firewhiskey, and you can slam one back as fast as anyone else.

You’ve turned this place—this surrounding by strangers—into something like a home.

As much of one as you can make out of flesh instead of brick.

Sam—the bartender—sees the look when you settle in, and he jerks his chin towards the end of the bar. There’s a bloke there leaning in on a woman, his hand on her knee, one hand dangerously close to her breast. Sam raises one eyebrow and you make a low noise like a growl; he gives you an approving look.

It’s not that you’re employed or anything. You’d never work for Muggles. But you’re a big bloke, and Sam knows you like a good fight. He knows you don’t have problem dealing out a bit of pain (that maybe you like that more than you let on) and he doesn’t have someone to do it for him full time. So you take care of issues when they pop up. Like this bloke who’s too drunk off his arse to take no for an answer.

She says it to him three times, and on the third you’ve got him by the scruff of his neck, yanking him back with a gruff, “You heard the lady; she said no. D’you need your ears cleaned properly so you can understand plain English?”

He throws the first punch, and the strike of his knuckles against your chin is like permission to explode, so you do.

It’s one of those nights where everyone gets involved. The floor clears out to leave room for combatants, and you wade in, fists flying. There are the regulars, and they’re on your side, and then there are the snot-nosed bratty kids who think their shite can’t stink, and they’re the ones whining about how they paid good money and they should be able to pull whoever the fuck they want. You re-educate them with a broken nose and a cracked rib and a reminder to listen next time a bird says she’s not interested.

When the dust clears, you’re bruised and battered and there’s an aching hard-on trapped inside your trousers. You make excuses and head back to the loo.

You don’t know the bloke that follows you in, but that doesn’t matter. You’ve seen him around and he’s seen you; you both know what you want. He has you up against the wall in moments, pushing his mouth over yours, grinding his prick against your leg.

All you want is to get off. S’just one small thing right now. Fight, then fuck, then go home so you can finally rest.

You wedge your hand between your hips, pressing against the hard ridge of his prick. When he doesn’t say no, you work the fly of his jeans open. It’d be easier to just vanish his clothes, but you can’t do that, and there’s something to be said for the Muggle way. Making you work for what you want, as you sink to his knees and tug his pants down beneath his cock.

He grips your hair and shoves into your mouth.

There’s an irony here, after the fight over consent, but you don’t care. He couldn’t do it if you didn’t want it, and this is _how_ you want it.

Wordless.

Faceless.

No promises, no questions.

Just a fuck.

You place your hands on his hips, push him back against the sink and hold him there. You need room to move, because fuck, you’re going to do this right. You love the smell of him, the taste of him, the salt and bitter musk that belongs to a man’s arousal. You nuzzle in, letting him stroke against your cheek while you mouth at his bollocks, soaking them with your spit, then trailing back along his prick to get it good and wet. Your hand wraps around the base, wanking him hard while you suck at the head, teasing the slit and hollowing your cheeks. When he grips your hair again, you let go and brace yourself against his hips, letting him fuck you.

It’s not your first time, and it won’t be your last. You just open your throat and let him slide in, starting to float in that place that means you’re being used. Your own prick aches but you won’t open your jeans, not yet. It’s not your turn.

You choke on a thrust and he pulls back, letting you tease him again. You let him slip almost all the way out, taking it slow now, your mouth wet and slick with saliva. He’s groaning under his breath, muttering things that you don’t care to hear. You don’t want to know why he fucks you, or who he thinks you are. You just want to be taken hard.

If he’s talking, it’s time to make this end.

You hollow your cheeks, letting him push into a tight cavity; the words are bitten off with a low moan as you pull back and do it again. Your hand slips under his bollocks, rolling them roughly, and a moment later he’s coming in your mouth, spurts of bitter fluid that you swallow quickly.

When you look up, he looks surprised. You bet he wanted to fuck you.

Well, fine. S’not like you really have a problem with that.

You rise up, sliding next to him at the sink as you work your trousers down to your thighs, standing bent over with your cheeks spread. He looks at you in confusion, and you growl, “Fingers, you sodding arse.”

He strokes his hand over his own cock, taking the remains of his come from there and using that to slick your hole. He presses a finger in quickly, taking you hard but you like it that way. Your hips sway, your prick sliding against the cold ceramic of the sink and you hiss and push back. He’s rough now, like he just wants to jack you off and walk away. His other hand wraps around your prick, jerking it quickly while he gets a second and a third finger into you. He twists and you growl, pushing back against him, fucking yourself on his fingers.

“Next time I’m going to bring my friends,” he whispers. “You’re going to suck all of us, and we’re going to cover you in jism.”

Fuck. He curls his fingers as he speaks and you cry out. You can’t _stop_ listening to him this time as he talks about using you, about holding you down while one of them fucks your mouth and two more fuck your hole, filling you up like the bossy little fucking bottom that you are.

You come when he whispers about how fat his friend’s prick is, how it would stretch you big enough to fit a fist inside.

He leaves you standing there with your pants and trousers down, your prick still dripping on the sink. Your fingers curl against the cold, white surface, and your head bows as you gather breath and remember how to relax.

It feels good to do this. Fight, then fuck. Make people hurt and take pain. The bruises will be a fresh reminder in the morning, the ache in your arse will make it hard to sit.

It’s what you need.

When you leave the loo, you see him on the other side of the room with a group of blokes. He raises his glass and when you pass nearby he asks idly if you’ll be there to watch the match on Tuesday.

You hold his gaze a second longer then necessarily and nod once.

On Tuesday you’ll make sure to bring lube. Sounds like you’ll need it, after they’re done keeping you on your knees.

It’s where you belong, and you’ve always known it. Just a pity it’s only Muggles that can accept it from you.

At least here, you know you can always come home, for a little while.


End file.
